


Don't Touch Me

by Celticas



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5+1 Things, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:47:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28627521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticas/pseuds/Celticas
Summary: Five times Clint doesn’t want Phil to touch him and one time he isn’t allowed.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 55





	Don't Touch Me

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for an event, however it fell through so I'm going to post it now.

Clint glared at the man standing over him. The fucker had shot him. With a gun. Shot him with a gun. In the leg. Bastard.

“Mr Barton. My name is Agent Phil Coulson from the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division. You are under arrest for Endangering the Peace.”

Endangering the Peace? What the fuck was that about? He hadn’t done anything. Well.. that wasn’t quite true. He had killed Sebastian Carter, but the guy was a trafficker, and not just of drugs and weapons. The bottom dweller had had it coming. That was helping the peace, not endangering it.

“Don’t touch me.” He spat when the guy reached out to tend the wound he had made. Yanking his leg away, he glared harder.

“I’m just trying to help Mr Barton.” The suit held his hands up in surrender. “If you want to bleed to death, that’s fine. It’s no more paperwork than arresting you.” He smiled congenially.

“Fuck you.” Clint dug a bandana out of a pocket and tied it around his leg as tight as he could. Getting to his feet was agony, but he managed it without screaming in pain.

“Lead the way.” He sneered at the Agent.

“Actually, I would much rather not have you behind me if it’s all the same with you.”

“Hey, I’ve never shot you!” He accused, but started walking anyway. He knew how this song and dance went. He was the ‘criminal’ so he wasn’t trustworthy even though they were the dickheads going around shooting random strangers.

= + =

Phil was Death with his scythe in hand. The hired guns falling before his relentless push forward, the retort of his gun long ago sending his hand and arm numb. He didn’t care. They were standing between him and one of his people. It was only Barton’s third mission with Phil, he hadn’t had a chance to show the other man that Phil made sure all of his people got home. That he cared about them as people, not just assets, or lemmings to be sacrificed at the altar of global security in the way some of his previous handlers had been prone to do.

The last guard on the room he was aiming for scrambled out of his way, weapon thrown to one side and hands up in supplication. These were the people he was willing to sacrifice for the greater good.

Getting through the door was a work of a few seconds. The security coming from within and without, not the lock itself. The room beyond turned his stomach. Blood stained the floor a dull copper brown and infection thickened the air. Fighting to breathe, he walked into hell.

A lump in one corner coalesced into the man he was looking for under the unforgiving light of his torch. Blood and dirt almost hid that he had been stripped naked. There wasn’t an untouched inch of skin visible. Even the soles of his feet were ripped and bruised.

“Barton?” He moved closer, crouching beside the unmoving man. “Clint?” Putting his and on Clint’s shoulder the roll him over, he didn’t see the fist coming.

It slammed into the side of his head, sending him reeling.

“Do.. don’t touch me.” Clint stuttered, pressed into the corner of the room now that he had stopped playing dead. “Don’t. I’ll. I’ll kill you if you touch me again.” It wasn’t the confidence, often brash Agent Phil was coming to know. It was a boy’s fear shaking an adult's voice.

“Clint? It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you. It’s Agent Coulson. Phil. I just want to look at your wounds.”

The legendary eyes weren’t focused on him, instead looking at a point over his left shoulder and at the height of where a man standing at his full height’s face would be.

“Clint? Can I look at your wounds?”

He could hear the door creak open behind him.

“Sir?” It was Agent Spirelli, their team’s medic.

“Stay back.” He ordered, keeping his voice low and even. “Clint, can you tell me where you are?”

Hawkeye whimpered. A broken sound that tore a new hole in Phil’s already tattered heart. “Carson’s?” Clint guessed.

That wasn’t a name Phil knew, the agency’s file on the younger man was patchy at best. “Who are the Carsons?” Most likely a foster family, a young Clinton had spent a number of years in the system before disappearing.

“No. not Carsons. Carson. Circus.”

That was new.

“You aren’t at the circus.”

“Hospital?” He guessed before Phil could say anything else.

“No Clint. I want to get you to a hospital, but we aren’t at one. Do you remember coming to Spain?” Phil settled in for the long haul. A slow process of pulling the man out of whatever hell his mind had used to replace the current one.

“Spain? Um. Fallon?” He asked.

“That’s right.”

Clint’s eyes were focusing on him now, not beyond him.

“Do you know who I am?”

His answering grin was the mischief maker he was slowly starting to realise it would take a lifetime to know. Although, it had a large helping of pain that wasn’t normally there.

“The Bastard that shot me.” He chuckled at his own lame attempt at a joke. It was wet in a way Phil didn’t like.

“That’s right. Now are you going to let Agent Spirelli look at you?”

Clint nodded tightly, his pain too great to hide.

= + =

“Fuck!” Clint swore quietly, staring at his handler. His friend.

“Yup.” Phil agreed, holding his arms out from his body in a vain attempt to keep anymore of the black goo from getting on his suit. It was a vain attempt because he was already covered in an inch of the stuff from head to toe.

Moving forward to help, Phil took two steps back for every one of Clint’s.

“Phil.”

“Clint.”

They glared at each other.

“I’m trying to help.” He took two very big strides forward. Almost getting his hands on the other man.

“Don’t touch me.” Phil’s voice was a slap in the face. “Contamination protocol.” He apologised.

= + =

“Nooo.” Clint whined. He was spread eagle across the shitty motel bed, bare ass naked. Phil could almost see the heat coming off the man’s skin. It hurt to look at. “Owww.” He continued.

He felt bad, he did. His asset, his friend, was in pain. It was a feeling Phil well remembered from long summer days spent chasing his brother and sister along the shores of Chesapeake Bay. It was a heat that seemed to just, double, triple, quadruple the hurt that was already stretching skin already pulled to breaking point.

“Stay still.” He ordered.

“Noo. Don’t touch me.” Clint sounded pathetic.

“Stop whining.”

“Stop touching me.” He countered,

Phil ignored him, scooping up another handful of aloe, he let it splat onto the sniper’s back before rubbing it in. Continuing to ignore Clint’s whining. The more he put on, the less fervent the whining became.

“Take your meds.” Phil finally said as he wiped his hands off.

“No.” Clint pouted at him over his bright red shoulder.

“Fine.” Phil shrugged and dropped the icecold, wet towel over the other man’s back and walked out. Clint’s sigh of relief followed him out.

= + =

“Don’t touch me.” Phil whispered. Arms crossed defensively, everything about him screamed keep away.

He looked small to Clint. Agent Phil Coulson had always been larger than life since the moment they had met. To see him looking so small scared Clint more than all of the monsters in his past combined.

“What happened?” Clint whispered, the tension that filled the too bright rooftop stopped him from talking any louder.

Phil shook his head. Eyes not leaving the vista of skyscrapers around them.

Clint stepped up beside him. The height didn’t worry him, he spent most of his life in high places. Normally, Phil would be the one edging away, he still had a healthy dose of any height that would have him reaching terminal velocity before he hit the ground. It worried Clint that he wasn’t moving away more than his going non-verbal. His body was screaming enough for both of them.

He looked human for the first time. Clint moved that last bit closer. Shoulders pressed together they stood in silence. Taking a deep shuddering death, Phil slumped against him. Giving in to whatever was tearing him apart.

“My mom died last night.”

= +1 =

Eyeing Phil speculatively, Clint prowled forward. “Don’t. Touch me.” He ordered.

Phil’s eyes were glassy. Fixed on Clint’s hips, he nodded not really hearing a word Clint had said. “Yeah, sure.”

“Phiiil.” Clint stopped moving. Waiting until the other man had dragged his eyes up from his hips, and finally met his eyes. “Don’t touch me.” He repeated.

“Yeah sure.” He actually sounded like he knew what he was agreeing to this time.

“Good.” Clint smirked.

Starting to move again now that Phil was playing. Turning Clint bent down, putting his impressive ass on display and took his time undoing the laces of each boot. Shifting his weight to pull his pants tight across first one asscheek and then the other. He was going to draw this out as long as he could. Until he broke Agent Coulson’s legendary control.


End file.
